It is 1996. The city is at an insomniac flavored standstill with itself. Imagine the moon exploding and no one witnessing it.

It is 2005.  The cacti are thirsty and you have never been in love. You thought you maybe felt it once. But she was fleeting, just like the seasons. You wake up and can’t remember the color of her eyes.  You think of the equator a lot.  And order in Thai food.

It is 2013 and sexting is happening. You don’t own a television and forget that you have a shadow sometimes.

(when it concerns you, I put a pillow that you slept on, over my face)

We were in the same bed once, but you barely noticed. You said you wanted to get married one day and then you fell asleep and went to work and never mentioned it again. 

It is 2016.

I felt you on the street today. And I knew you didn’t want to feel my shape.

So I hid behind a car and a little girl asked me why I was hiding and I told her that there are some things in life I cannot face. Tornadoes, the death of hummingbirds and you. She told me I was sad and I told her to find her mother.

It is still 2016 and this is what I have become. 

Leah Leinbach is currently residing in Portland, Oregon where she spends her days trying to talk to trees, babies and dogs, wishing she could speak their language. She prefers the ocean to most things and wishes she slept more.